


Joe's Shanghai

by Lov_pb



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen, Holidays, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 15:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8673247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lov_pb/pseuds/Lov_pb
Summary: Neal and Peter share a Thanksgiving meal together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanksgiving one-shot. Sorry this is late; I had hoped to finish and post before the Holiday.

“This is ridiculous, Neal.”

“Come on, Peter. It won’t be much longer.”

Heavy sigh… 

“I’m not getting any younger here.”

“Patience is a conquering virtue.”

“Mozzie been quoting Chaucer lately?” Peter shifted his weight uncomfortably. “‘Tide and time wait for no man.’”

“You’ll be happy we waited.”

“No. I’ll be sorry I wasted my time in Chinatown, instead of being home, enjoying my day off,” huffed the disgruntled federal agent, tapping one foot impatiently. “I could be in front of a TV set, right now, getting ready for the big game.”

Neal rolled his eyes as a shudder passed through his lean frame.

“Why am I not surprised. You really would spend all Thanksgiving Day parked in front of a television set.”

Pursing his lips in disapproval, directing a steely gaze at his friend, Peter’s hands went to his hips in typical Burke fashion.

Prepping for an unwanted lecture, Neal stiffened his back, seeking comfort in the knowledge a bottle of Henriot Cuvee des Enchantellurs awaited him at home. Even if Mozzie happened to drop by tonight, there still might be a good portion of the champagne left to lessen the pain of this good deed. 

Peter's ensuing words broke into his thoughts.

"Let me provide some enlightenment. Football is as synonymous with Thanksgiving as turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie," said the sports enthusiast, beginning on a roll. “Did you know the first Thanksgiving Day football game was held in 1869?” 

“Peter, please ̶”

"A foot-ball match in Philadelphia played at 12:30pm, EST, six years after President Lincoln declared Thanksgiving a holiday.”

“Fascinating.”

“Yes, I knew you’d think so.”

"Actually, I think our number will be called shortly.”

“In fact, by the time football became professional, playing on Thanksgiving had become an institution." Peter smiled fondly. “The NFL has three games scheduled to play. The first two games are hosted by the Lions and the Cowboys, but the third one is played at night and has no fixed opponents allowing the league to choose who to feature. I'm looking forward to the Steelers and the Colts." 

Neal decided to try and put an end to an insufferable football monolog.

“Let me quote Ernest Agyemang Yeboah ̶ “

“Does he play for the Seahawks?”

“‘If people institute wrong institutions,’” Neal recited, “‘wrong institutions do not just produce wrong people, but wrong people who understand and accept mediocrity as an institution.’ Yeboah is a ̶ ” 

"Ghanaian-born writer whose books depict the reasons, essence and realities of life. The author of Distinctive Footprints of Life. Yes… yes."

“I’m impressed, Peter. Been researching material for your crossword puzzles again?”

“Look, Neal. I’m grateful (don’t give me that face) that you invited me to dinner knowing El’s out of town this week. But why Joe’s Shanghai Restaurant on Pell Street in Chinatown?" he shook his head with incomprehension. “Look at this immense waiting line overflowing the street.” 

“Most restaurants in Chinatown remain open for Thanksgiving dinner, Peter. It’s time you shook up your ideas of tradition. And Joe’s is a prime location for today.”

“Uh-huh. You could’ve, at least, picked somewhere that takes reservations.”

Neal lifted a hand to his head and closed his eyes as in pain. 

“Yes. Well, I’m sorry but Mr. Burger’s at Penn Station was closed today.”

“Are you all right?” Peter asked, most insincerely. “If you're in pain we can head back to my house."

Neal once again questioned his sanity for agreeing to Elizabeth's request that Peter not spends the day alone. Privately calling him up, before her departure (a last-minute visit to an ailing aunt in Ohio), her suggestion that he invite her husband for dinner, seemed innocuous enough. But that was before he found out June’s plans had changed. Instead of her annual Thanksgiving dinner at Riverside Drive, she had been invited to join her children on a holiday cruise and left on Tuesday. 

“Number 45 is up,” intoned one of the restaurant waiters, stepping skillfully out and back in the front door, sidestepping the waiting crowd on the street. 

“What’s our number, Neal?”

“We’ll be called up shortly. I promise,” answered his consultant. 

“But you haven’t told me what our number is…” 

Voice trailing off, Peter’s gaze narrowed in on the large, motley group of tourists and city residents, lining the cramp sidewalks, waiting for admittance.

“Neal, I know when you’re avoiding an honest response. What’s our number?”

As Neal lowered his left arm, momentarily distracted by a small child crying out nearby, Peter managed to quickly snatch the ticketed receipt out of his hand. 

“What!” exclaimed his rather excitable boss. “Number 193. Are you crazy?” 

Handing the ticket back to Neal, Peter began dancing around the pedestrians blocking his way and stepping off across the street. “If you want a ride home, follow me,” he told Neal “but I’m not waiting any longer.” Peter paused for a moment, looking back. “You’d think this is a Red Sox/Yankee game for the time it takes to be seated.”

“Wait,” called Neal, moving forward and reaching out his hand. 

“Neal! We can go to my house; I have some deli turkey meat. I'll make us up sandwiches and… and even break open one of El’s white wines just for you.”

“How generous ̶ ”

“Number 193.” A voice shouted out. 

Beaming smugly, Neal motioned his friend back to the restaurant entrance. “The maître d’ is calling for us.”

Peter's mutter, "how'd we go from 45 to 193," was barely heard by the hungry crowd’s murmured displeasure, as Neal quickly escorted his companion into the eatery, bestowing warm smiles and holiday greetings as they passed. 

Joe Shanghai’s unassuming small interior was packed cheek to jowl. Customers, of all ages and ethnicity, seated at round communal tables or squeezed into smaller side tables along the wall, seemed to be basking in the delight of good food and conversation. Lacking any quality décor, the very modest-looking establishment had a definite no-frills vibe; Peter was amazed Neal had condescended to eat here. 

Although the agent was well-aware cramped dining was a signature in New York he sincerely doubted Joe’s management was monitoring the legal occupancy limit, and wondered if the city Fire Department ever sent an officer to take a head count. 

Well, he wouldn’t make a fuss but he might just mosey over during part of the meal (only for curiosity sake, of course) to inspect the mandatory certificate denoting annual inspection and seating plan. 

“Please follow this way,” said a heavily-accented black apron-clad Chinese waiter. 

Directing them to one of small side tables near the rear back wall, a familiar short, balding, bespectacled man sat waiting for them.

“You didn’t tell me Mozzie was joining us,” hissed Peter, as he neared the table. 

“Smile, Peter. Mozzie’s the one who arranged for our quick seating,” explained Neal. “He’s friends with the staff.”

“Of course,” Peter responded with pained half-smile, taking his seat. “My day off has gotten even better.”

“Hello, Suit,” greeted Mozzie. “Neal told me Elizabeth’s away for the week and insisted I let you crash our party.” 

The small man quickly spoke a few words of Mandarin to their waiter who glanced at Peter and chuckled, before darting away to the kitchen. 

“You speak Chinese?” Peter asked Mozzie doubtfully, before turning to address Neal. 

“He speaks Chinese? What? Rosetta Stone; learn ‘Mandarin with Confidence?’”

Neal answered with a bemused shrug, as Mozzie lifted his full glass of red wine. Taking a sip before replying, the linguist answered Peter’s question. “I speak a spattering of many tongues, although I’m not as skilled as Neal. But since you asked, I learned Mandarin through a native teacher, not via any government tutorial babble.”

“I need a beer,” answered Peter, “maybe several of them.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sometime later....

“Peter? Oh, Pet..er?”

Startled from his mellow mood while sipping a Tsingtao beer, the agent glanced up to see Neal and Mozzie observing him with puzzled expressions. Lost in thought, he must have repeatedly failed to hear his name called.

“What?"

Silence from both men greeted him. 

"Something wrong? Is there food on my tie?”

“No,” answered Mozzie, “I asked if you were ready for more dumplings.” He paused, frowning. “You know, you might occasionally deign to join in the conversation, Suit.”

"I apologize. I was thinking about bringing El here; she might want to sample the crispy duck or Zha Jiang noodle soup." 

The small man nodded his head yes. "She likes Chinese." 

“How do you know what she likes?” scowled Peter. 

"She tells me many things," Mozzie replied, feeling warm and buzzed, deftly lifting chopstick-laden rice noodles to his mouth. “We chat during our weekly tea time.”

Leaning back in his chair, Peter responded with a groan, eyes beseeching Neal for help.

“Enjoying your beer, Peter?” Neal inquired, offering up an affectionate grin.

“Dark with light tan foam," the agent replied, his crooked grin displaying momentary delight, holding the brown bottle up to the light as he slowly rotated it from side to side. “Misses the smoothness of a good stout, with a slightly sweet finish. I’m glad you suggested I try it; not as good as a Fisler, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Carrying another bamboo steamer of soup dumplings, their waiter paused by the table long enough to drop off the famed house specialty before scurrying off to other customers. 

"Enjoy, Gentlemen,” he called over his shoulder. 

“Best soup dumplings in NYC,” exclaimed Mozzie, as the three men began to help themselves. Although the trio had shared appetizers and enjoyed several entrees on the menu, the Xiao Long Bao or “Little Dumplings in the Basket” won hands down as the favorite. 

Skillfully using tongs to place the plump soft dumplings on their soup spoons, each man poked a hole in the dumpling with a chopstick, preventing a burn of the mouth, and sucked out the tasty broth before eating the pork meatball inside.

"This has been a fabulous meal. You were right, Neal,” said Peter, “and I don't even miss the turkey.” Bestowing a genuine smile on his two companions, he leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes it’s fun to break out of old traditions to experience a new one."

“We’re not all Norman Rockwell paintings, Suit.” Mozzie pointed out, his voice becoming uncharacteristically soft. 

Peter nodded, shifting forward. “‘Tradition is a guide and not a jailer,'" he quoted.

“Exactly.” Mozzie replied. 

“Thanksgiving can appear in many forms," agreed Neal. “Ofttimes with family, or with friends and sometimes with those who are closer than close… the ones who know you better than family." 

“Good food, good conversation and good friends.” Peter raised his beer glass --- “things to be thankful for.”

The men responded with the clinking of glasses.

Mozzie looked around enjoying the hustle and bustle of the restaurant. Rubbing his hands together he asked, "So, what's next on the agenda?"

“You got me there, Moz. I really hadn’t put much thought into after dinner.” 

Mozzie wasn’t fooled by Neal’s polite lie. “We could go to your apartment and sample some of your spirits. Did June leave any dessert?”

Neal looked doubtful.

“We could go to my house and break open some of El’s good stuff,” offered Peter. “This morning my neighbor even dropped off a homemade pumpkin pie. 

Both men gaped at him. 

What did I just offer, thought Peter. Had the Tsingtao been doctored? He quickly counted the empties on the table; only three! What was going on?

Neal couldn’t believe it. Did Peter just invite both men home for a drinking party?

With a glint a glint of excitement in his eye, Mozzie finally responded. “By all means. Pumpkin pie and I know… how about some poker. How’s that, Suit?”

“Mozzie̶- ”

“He can use his own cards, Neal.”

“It’s okay, Neal. I’ll bite.” Too late to back out now. “Texas and Omaha hold ‘em. Pot limit, variance of twist rounds and no Anacoda,” Peter added with confidence and narrowing of eyes. “And the Steelers game will be on in the background.”

“You don’t get to state the rules,” argued Mozzie. 

“My house and my rules… or no pumpkin pie.”

“He has a point, Moz.”

“Fine,” declared Mozzie in a huff. “But only since we talked about being prepared to break tradition.”

“And no cheating or I’ll handcuff you to the chair.”

“As if you could catch my tell,” scoffed Mozzie with a bravado he didn’t exactly feel. 

“Ah, it looks like we have a plan,” said Neal. 

Feeling an odd mix of holiday spirit and competitive excitement, the boys prepared to pay the bill and head into Brooklyn.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Shout out to Ellie who introduced me to the wonders of Joe's Shanghai soup dumplings.


End file.
